


One Night Only

by CharismaticEnticer



Category: Die Anstalt
Genre: Blanket Fic, Claustrophobia, Comfort, Dreams, Foreshadowing, Gen, Mental Instability, Nightmares, No Dialogue, POV Third Person Limited, Present Tense, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepiness, Spoilers, Symbolism, sort of, the art gallery of your mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharismaticEnticer/pseuds/CharismaticEnticer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone needs security sometimes. Can creatures who can’t defend themselves afford to defend others? Kroko tries, without meaning to, to answer this question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night Only

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story about this: this was originally going to be a drabble, to get me back into the swing of writing. 1000 words later...
> 
> Originally written and published on October 14th 2012.
> 
> Die Anstalt © Martin Kittsteiner.

It’s past midnight. How much so, Dr Wood doesn’t know. He’s normally better at internal time keeping than this. But he’s having to strain to distinguish the words and pictures in Brain-Storm from each other in the single murky blend they have become, even with the light on, so it’s probably ‘past’ enough to get some much needed repose. This will not be one of his taxing all nighters, fortunately or not.

He closes it and strains himself to place it on the desk on top of all the other psychology magazines. He doesn’t bother to get up and turn the light off, not out of fear but sheer sleepiness. Instead, he sits again and leans back, trying to find the right - what’s the word? - contours of his crisp leather office chair.

Kindermann used to sit here. Reading at the same desk, scanning the same articles, talking constantly and praisingly about this and that with genius he. But now that he is gone, the other doctor is keeping it warm and well-used for him by resting here every night.   
This is far from the most comfortable bed, simply by virtue of it being what it is. All the same, it serves him well enough. His only other option has always been sharing sheets with the nurse, or recently the temp employee. And slight chills in the night, frankly, are much better than that choice. 

He doesn’t want to appear weak, after all, in needing selfish human comfort. He would be the laughing stock of the staff kitchen. He is Dr H Wood. He is above such petty needs - the comfort, not the selfishness. He can’t show insecurity. Not now…

Sadly, he is not above sleep. Scorning the humans won’t get his mind to rest.  
Having found the perfect position, Wood leans back, settles down and focuses on his breathing, and the day ahead of him when he wakes up. Perhaps he will talk to Kroko in the morning. Try to get behind why he clings to that item of his so tightly.  What does it protect him from? 

One deep breath in, and out. Two. Three. Heavy lids. Calm thoughts.  
Need to sleep…

*****

_…perchance to dream._

_The art gallery yawns in front of him, golden brown picture frames dangling tentatively from the walls left and right, but all that they contain is emptiness. Bare bulbs shine from the ceiling to pave his way across; he knows deep down he has to stay within the light, he cannot cross to darker sides. The wind whistles all around him, echoing in the eaves, to further warn him away._

_As he passes each frame, a dull red border appears within; a subsequent step brings a person out from the shadows, captured, stoic and still and larger than unlife. Life._ _He can hear them breathing and talking, how is that so? He can name them all._ _Jung. Erickson. Perls. Wolpe. May. Freud, Father._

_It is after his glaring visage that the corridor comes to a stop. In an explosive burst, all bulbs blow their fuses but the last, the one that hovers directly over him. He cannot look up at it, for if he moves and falls and dips into the blackness the whispers will overtake him unlock him expose him, murmuring non-memories given form, with their spindly claws and their drooling mouths and their distorted oversized heads._

_But it’s hard to stay in the light when it is shrinking, becoming ever more constrictive, paralysing him. No. Not the light. Either the room itself is, or he is growing instead, either way the walls bear down, the floor rises, he can hear the crashing of the frames and the tearing of the images as he brushes against them, is gripped, is squashed, is choked,_

_is soothed. The weight becomes softer on him, less compressing, and it wraps around him. Malleable. For the first time, the room is cool rather than cold. He does not struggle, he can’t, and he sinks into a fate he isn’t sure he wants, but can no longer resist._

_When it stops, he finds he is holding on to a string, and his skin feels like oil. Like paint. He gazes out and sees the gallery again, intact.  
He looks down at himself._

*****

When unconsciousness peels away to leave a more refreshed raven behind, the weight is still there. It isn’t covering his face, fortunately, but the rest of him, including his clawed toes. 

Dr Wood shuffles to try and get it off, losing the familiar contour in the process. Fully awake now, he grabs it and notices properly what it is. It’s a blanket, sky blue and shapeless, with a faint smell of sugar. 

What is this of all things doing on top of him? Besides the obvious? Its owner has never been willing to give this up before. What makes tonight so different? 

Looking it over more closely answers his own question; there’s a note attached to it with a bit of sticky tape, obviously torn out from somewhere (if it was taken from his notebook, he will _not_ be happy). The spidery scrawl intersects itself in places. It must have been written in a hurry. 

> [Sly was really noisy and he wouldn’t go to sleep. Came to get you. You looked cold and were having a nightmare. You needed this more. But this one is mine, so for one night only please.]
> 
> \- Kroko

…My my. He smiles, despite himself. Kroko  **has**  been making progress. He’ll have to commend the newcomer later.  
Still, he had better return this right away. He can’t be seen with this, it would make him look…

…and yet…

It is definitely very warm. That can’t be denied. And it staved off the darkness when he was vulnerable to it most. Perhaps that is what Kroko is afraid of too.

What time is it? He looks up at the clock, unintelligible last night, and visible here. 7:30am. The patients won’t be awake willingly for at least half an hour, and the employees clearly aren’t here.

That tips him over. In a moment of weakness - appreciative and relaxed, but still weakness - Wood pulls the blanket back close to his chest to spend some more much needed time with it before its inevitable loss. The crushed cereal scent wafts over him, and for the first time in a couple of days he feels secure.

One can afford a little selfish human comfort every now and again.


End file.
